


That Sweet Tang Of Nothingness

by WhisperElmwood



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cutting, M/M, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperElmwood/pseuds/WhisperElmwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He first started when his mom fell ill. It got worse when it became clear she wasn’t going to get better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Sweet Tang Of Nothingness

He knows things are getting a bit much, when he realizes he’s sizing up the various implements in the kitchen, the bathroom, the utility room…

He first started when his mom fell ill. It got worse when it became clear she wasn’t going to get better. It stopped for a while when she died, things were so numb that not even that got through, so he gave it up and simply settled into the nothingness, rode it out.

He’s still got a handful of fading scars on his inner thighs, the one place people don’t look, can’t look, without invitation. It’s not like he’s had anyone to invite, or who would take him up on the offer, anyway.

For years, he’s battled this. Before Peter Hale swanned back into town and bit Scott, he thought he had a handle on it, thought he hadn’t had the need for such a long time that it was gone, settled. But he was wrong. It was just dormant. Waiting.

The night Peter mauled Lydia, he started again.

It’s different now, though. It used to be a way to feel, a way to break away from the numbness; the sweet tang of blood waking up his senses. The parting of flesh sharp, alive, making him feel real again.

Now.

Now he thinks it’s become a way to punish himself. Each new scar, each parting of flesh, a new reminder of how so much of this is his fault. If he hadn’t given in to childish curiosity that first night. If he’d just said yes to Peter. If. If. If.

And he’s started looking at the knives in the kitchen, the scissors in the utility room, the razors in the bathroom, sizing them all up for how much damage, how much pain, how much blood they could give him.

At first, he finds it strange that none of the wolves notice. But after a while he reasons that he smells of blood so often now that it all just blends together. After that, he maybe gets a little reckless.

He’s sitting in the bathroom, on the floor, his back to the bathtub, when Derek finds him. He might have cut a little deeper than usual. There’s blood welling up under the towel still, soaking through, dripping and sliding down his inner thigh, pooling on the tiles below.

Derek doesn’t yell, or shout, or even get angry or tell him he’s being stupid. He simply closes the door and settles down next to him. Awkwardly touches far gentler fingers than he’s used to, to his shoulder.

When he’s finally stopped bleeding, Derek helps him clean and dress the wound, then he helps him clean the bathroom. Stiles is so tired by that point that he just wants to sleep for a week, so he falls into bed and, without saying a word, Derek tucks him in and then sits on the desk chair.

It should feel wrong, stalkery, but it doesn’t. He feels comfortable and is out within minutes.

He’s not even sure why Derek came in the first place.

He doesn’t know how it happens, but it becomes a thing, after that first night. Whenever Stiles is getting to the point where he wants to take the breadknife and go at himself with it, Derek turns up, sliding in through his window on silent feet and instead they talk, or watch a movie, or argue, or Derek just sits and keeps him company while he hugs his knees, nails scratching perhaps a little too roughly at his forearms.

Things come to a head when Derek takes a bullet meant for him. It’s not even laced with Wolfsbane, just an ordinary, everyday sort of armour piercing round. He still nearly loses his arm, and that night Derek is holed up at the Vet’s and Stiles is alone at home, having been chased off by Deaton and Scott. Told to get some rest, to stop worrying, to come back tomorrow.

His father is working the late shift again and he sits on his bed, listening to the silence, the night playing itself over and over in his head. It was his fault. His fault.

If. If. If.

It’s been months since the night Derek found him. But now he’s alone and he can’t think of a reason or a way, to stop himself.

His old stash of broken razors is just where he left it and the sting of parting flesh is exactly as he remembers. It feels like coming home. It feels like being alive. It feels like every fuck you the universe has ever shoved at him simply for existing.

He chases the rivulets of blood with a tissue, doesn’t want to stain the carpet, or his bed.

Each new line of red against his pale skin makes him feel calmer, makes his head quieter, helps him to think, to feel. So he doesn’t stop. He wants his head to just shut up already. Please.

And then Derek’s there. Broad, blunt fingered hand settling over his longer, blood stained fingers. He looks up and Derek’s still wrapped in bandages, but he’s alive and well and breathing and looking at him.

There’s no pity, or anger, or anything else he thought would be there. Just – an apology.

Derek helps him clean up, dresses his many wounds and then, and then…

They roll in to bed together; wrap their arms around each other.

He lays his head on Derek’s chest, listens to his heart beat and closes his eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone who has ever SHd has done so for their own personal reasons, this short ficlet is just based on my own experiences.


End file.
